


Infinite moments line up, waiting

by mygalfriday (BrinneyFriday)



Series: Roman Pond [1]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-26
Updated: 2014-10-26
Packaged: 2018-02-22 17:39:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2516228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrinneyFriday/pseuds/mygalfriday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Doctor keeps his eyes firmly shut, hoping that if he refuses to look around and accept this startling new reality, it will all go away. No surprise child with a wife he already lost long ago. No quaint little house with a vibrant green back garden. No party with a banner hanging from the tree branches of the towering oak that exclaims in colorful block lettering Happy 5th Birthday!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Infinite moments line up, waiting

**Author's Note:**

> Story title from The Time Traveler’s Wife.

The first thing he expects to find when he steps out of the TARDIS is Clara tapping her foot and waiting impatiently to ask him just what he’s doing showing up on a Friday when she has a date and not a Wednesday, which is their usual meeting time and can he please leave before Danny spots a police box in her living room? He still hasn’t thought of a good answer, honestly. Not that he needs one, since what he ends up finding in place of a short, cross human is a back garden with falling streamers and deflating balloons. A little boy sits in the grass with a party hat hanging round his neck by a string as he occupies himself with his pile of newly opened gifts, the wrappings of which are still strewn all around him like confetti.

 

Sod it all. One day, his blasted ship will take him where he bloody well wants to be.

 

As the Doctor slowly starts to back away into the TARDIS, the Old Girl betrays him beyond measure by slamming the door shut, all at once locking him out and getting the boy’s attention. The Doctor cringes, jabbing a sharp, vengeful elbow into the door of the TARDIS. _Traitor_ , he thinks savagely. _You are the Benedict Arnold of ships. It isn’t too late to revisit that TARDIS graveyard in the bubble universe, you know._

 

As unhappy as he is to be stuck in some strange place, the little boy has enough enthusiasm for both of them, his whole face lighting up at the sight of the Doctor. “Daddy, you came!” He scrambles to his feet, dragging what looks like a futuristic version of a child’s play gun – complete with flashing lights and sound effects. Quite sure they’re alone in the garden, the Doctor looks around for the child’s father and feels his hearts drop into his stomach when the boy stumbles to a halt right in front of him, beaming and holding up his present. “Look what Uncle Jack got me!”

 

For a moment, respiratory bypass be damned, the Doctor stops breathing.

 

 

Big eyes blink up at him, that boyish grin still firmly in place on a little face full of childish faith. In him.

 

 _No_.

 

This can’t be – he wouldn’t. Not again. Not after –

 

“Sweetie?”

 

Despite the panic clawing its way up his throat, the Doctor shuts his eyes in relief at the sound of a familiar voice, drawing in a steadying breath. Thank Rassilon. It’s River, his wee psychopath. The prospect of having a child is terrifying enough, but the prospect of having a child with someone who isn’t her would be more than he could bear.

 

The little boy stops tugging on his trouser leg with a huff. “Mummy, Daddy’s being weird.”

 

The Doctor keeps his eyes firmly shut, hoping that if he refuses to look around and accept this startling new reality, it will all go away. No surprise child with a wife he already lost long ago. No quaint little house with a vibrant green back garden. No party with a banner hanging from the tree branches of the towering oak that exclaims in colorful block lettering _Happy 5 th Birthday! _

 

“Why don’t you take your gifts inside, darling? Give your daddy a moment, alright?”

 

River’s voice, softer and gentler than he has ever heard it before, makes a lump form in his throat. He swallows tightly, listening to footsteps scurrying away, and the grumbling struggles of a little boy carting the weight of all his new toys inside the house. The moment he’s gone, River rests a tentative hand on his arm. The Doctor squints open one eye to find her watching him cautiously, eyes glistening.

 

“You’re too early.”

 

He opens his other eye as well, still not quite looking at her. Instead he stares at her hand, small and capable on his forearm. “He’s…” He forces the next word out. “Mine?”

 

“Of course he is.” River instantly draws her hand away.

 

He wants to reach out for her, to take her hand back and pull her in close. This body hasn’t touched her yet. He isn’t sure he remembers how. “No, I meant… me. _This_ me.”

 

She softens a little, pursing her lips and shaking her head. “It happened right after Manhattan.”

 

His eyes fly up to meet hers in stunned silence. He never knew. A thousand years since then and he never knew. Why would she keep something like this from him?

 

“You weren’t ready,” she explains before he can ask. “I waited until I could find a version of you that was.”

 

His throat tightens. “I don’t feel ready.”

 

She smiles gently. “You will be, when the time comes.”

 

“River -”

 

“I know.” The smile fades and those all-knowing, all-seeing eyes watch him with all the understanding in the universe. “It’s been a very long time since you’ve seen me. I never expected you to find me this early for you. You can leave if you like. Come back when you’re ready.”

 

He takes a step back, prepared to turn and run.

 

“But...” She raises an eyebrow, smiling again. “There is a little boy waiting inside who will be very disappointed if his father doesn’t at least wish him a happy birthday before he goes.”

 

The Doctor hesitates, overcome with the most overwhelming urge to fidget.

 

“He loves you, you know. Grumpy, emotionally inept and Scottish you may be, but you’re still his father.” River inclines her head toward the house, looking at him like whatever he does next is more important than he realizes. “Come inside, sweetie.”

 

He wants to turn and sprint back to the TARDIS. His last regeneration would have run like the fires of hell were at his heels the moment a little boy looked up and called him daddy.

 

River watches him like she expects him to be better than he is.

 

Rule 7.

 

Never run when you’re scared.

 

He has never been very good at following his own rules and right now, he’s absolutely terrified. Terrified, but standing still and finally looking his wife in the eye. It seems he’s quite through with running out on the people he loves.

 

“What’s he called?”

 

River’s shoulders relax and her lips twitch into a smile. “Spoilers.”

 

“Rubbish name for a child.” He strides past her and toward the little house, heading right for the door the boy had left ajar. “You’ll get him beat up on the playground.”

 

“Oh, shut up.” River follows after him, ushering him into the house and shutting the door behind her.

 

It isn’t quite what he expected. He supposes he had been expecting another version of River’s cottage, only big enough for two now. And in some ways, it is. Her books and papers are still lying around. Little artifacts she nicks from various dig sites and travel expeditions littered around the house, displayed like souvenirs. It’s different now though. There are little boy sneakers by the door, a small jacket hanging on a hook, crayon drawings hanging on the refrigerator, toys that haven’t been put away. The house looks lived in, in a way River’s cottage never did.

 

And then some things that don’t quite make sense yet – an unfamiliar jacket hanging on the hook next to the lad’s, a coffee pot next to the kitchen sink when he knows River doesn’t drink coffee, a grocery list attached to the fridge in writing that looks nothing like River’s.

 

The Doctor swallows back his questions and follows his wife through the house, taking everything in silently. There were pictures on the wall through this corridor – he can see where they used to hang. Someone took them down recently. Spoilers? But River clearly hadn’t known he’d be coming and the boy certainly couldn’t reach them…

 

When he lingers, staring where photographs used to be and trying to imagine what they looked like, River takes his hand gently and leads him along, eyes patient and amused. Their son – Oh Christ, it’s enough to make him want to turn around and run after all – sits in the middle of the living room, playing with his toys and obviously trying to pretend like he hadn’t been waiting for them the whole time. He looks up and relaxes when he sees the Doctor standing in the doorway, climbing to his feet with a grin. For a moment, the Doctor forgets necessary bodily functions like breathing and blinking in the name of unabashed staring.

 

The boy looks exactly like his former self – square chin, full mouth in a perpetual pout, absolutely no eyebrows to speak of, floppy brown hair forever slipping into his eyes. The eyes are green, though. He has his mother’s eyes. The Doctor swallows hard, letting River slip by him and approach her son, crouching to his level.

 

“Sweetie, remember what we talked about?” She runs her fingers through his hair, smiling a little as the boy watches her solemnly. “About what we should do if Daddy came to visit before he should?”

 

He nods gravely and answers, “I shouldn’t tell him anything no matter how much he pesters me.”

 

The Doctor glares at the back of River’s head, forcing back a snort of derision. Of course his son would be well versed in spoilers – particularly keeping them from his old man.

 

River beams. “Good boy. Now run upstairs and get ready for bed. I’ll be along soon.”

 

The boy darts a glance over her shoulder at the Doctor, unsure now around the man who looks like his father but eyes him with nothing but terror and curiosity. “No bedtime story?”

 

River hesitates, her hand hovering over his hair. “I don’t think the Doctor is quite ready for -”

 

“It’s a bedtime story, River, not a marriage in an aborted timeline.” He forces himself to look directly at the boy, raising his brows. “Besides, my stories are legendary. I once recreated the universe using a bedtime story.”

 

He can practically feeling River rolling her eyes but the boy smiles so widely at him the Doctor feels his scowl melting away as rapidly as snow in the spring. He ducks his head, eyes on the floor, and doesn’t look up again until he hears the boy racing up the staircase, tripping over his own feet on the way. Inherited his former self’s habit of being all limbs and no grace too, it seems.

 

River stands slowly, turning to face him with a smirk. “He won’t tell you anything.”

 

“I didn’t volunteer for bedtime duty to interrogate him.”

 

She gives him a hard stare.

 

He holds up his hands, eyeing her. “He can’t have his real dad for his birthday, you want to deny him a story as well?”

 

River frowns. “You are his real dad.”

 

“No, I’m not. I don’t know his favorite color. I don’t know his name. Hell, I don’t even know if he likes marmite!” He pauses here, giving her a pleading look tinged with disgust. “Please god say no.”

 

River snorts, turning from him to begin picking up the toys littering the floor, piling them all into her arms and carrying them to the closet across the room. He watches her shove them in and hurriedly shut the door before they all come tumbling back out again. “I’m afraid he has your previous incarnation’s taste in food. I craved fish fingers and custard the entire nine months I was pregnant with him. I can’t even smell it now without wanting to be sick everywhere.”

 

He wrinkles his nose. “Did he inherit anything at all from me?”

 

“The ego.” River grins broadly at his scowl. “Go on, then. He’s waiting for you.”

 

He panics, caught between the desire to go upstairs and just stare at his child, and the urge to run in the other direction. Or maybe just right into his wife’s arms. It’s been so long. “River -”

 

“Bedtime story first.” She sighs, lifting her head and watching him wearily. “I need a moment, sweetie.”

 

He squares his jaw. “Fine. I’ll just put our darling little whelp to bed, shall I?”

 

As he turns to go, she calls out, “No cross examination, Doctor. And don’t you dare put him to sleep with a psychic link – he caught on to that little trick around the age of one, old man.”

 

“Old man?” The Doctor whirls to frown at her. “I – wait. That was a spoiler. You just spoiled me, River Song.”

 

She smirks. “Don’t get used to it.”

 

He climbs the stairs and examines the pictures there as he goes, taking note of the ones with just his son by himself or the ones with River holding him, eyeing with suspicion all the empty spaces where other pictures used to be. It isn’t difficult to spot his son’s bedroom – the first door on the left, covered with posters of superheroes, maps of star systems, and a crayon drawing labeled with _Mummy, Daddy and me_.

 

The Doctor knocks softly once and slips into the room, unsurprised to see the little miniature of his eleventh self sitting up in bed, wide awake and waiting for him in his pajamas. The room is an obvious conglomeration of his parents travels – dusty bits of rock and ancient toys from his mother’s digs and odd but entertaining bits and bobs from his father’s adventures to distant planets. Clearly he pocketed anything he thought might amuse his son. At least he hopes they’re from him.

 

Feeling more like a distant grandfather than someone’s dad, the Doctor settles onto the edge of the lad’s bed and clears his throat, studying the boy in the same careful way he is being sized up in return. Up close, he can see that the boy’s brown hair is streaked with blond like his mother’s – like the vortex reached out and stroked its fingers through his hair. Amongst the floppy mess of brown and blond, the Doctor can just make out the blue frosting from his birthday cake matted in a few of the strands and only just manages to keep from outright smiling. Instead, he settles for an awkward, slightly grumpy, “Hello there.”

 

The boy giggles, drawing his knees up to his chest. “Hi, Daddy.”

 

Fighting the urge to flinch, the Doctor fumbles for something to fill the silence. If he doesn’t, he’ll never manage to keep his promise about not interrogating his own son. “Have a good birthday, lad? Your mother did always know how to throw a party. Well, crash them.”

 

The boy nods eagerly, launching into a detailed account of who brought him the best presents – a tie between Auntie Vastra and Uncle Jack. The Doctor listens patiently, seething inwardly all the while. Vastra knew he had a son. Vastra went to the boy’s birthday parties and pretended she liked cake and brought _presents_ but never said a word. Centuries grieving his wife, thinking he’d never see her again, and Vastra kept her secrets like a sodding sphinx.

 

“And then Uncle Strax said -”

 

“Oh, not Strax,” the Doctor groans. “Please tell me River doesn’t let the potato one anywhere near you.”

 

“I like Strax!” The boy frowns, poking at the Doctor’s knee with a little finger. “He’s funny. Not as funny as -” The boy stops instantly, eyes widening like he realized he was on the verge of spoilers, and simply repeats, “He’s funny.”

 

Oh, he’s good, this one. But not quite good enough.

 

“Not as funny as your grumpy old dad though, eh?”

 

Pursing his lips, the boy says nothing but his eyes are in silent agreement.

 

The Doctor sighs. “I’m sorry I’m not quite him.”

 

The lad shrugs.

 

“Does it bother you?”

 

He is flirting with the line of interrogation but he can’t seem to help himself – a precocious little spoiler sits right in front of him like the apple of temptation. He has never been very good at resisting.

 

“Not really.”

 

“Why not?”

 

The lad fiddles with his comforter, shrugging again. “You don’t love me yet, but that’s okay.” He lifts his head, smiling his mother’s smile of premature forgiveness. “I know you will.”

 

A lump rises to his throat quite without his permission and the Doctor works hard to swallow it, clearing his throat. He already loves the boy. How could he not? The moment a miniature version of himself and River tugged on his trouser leg and beamed, he hadn’t stood a chance. But the Doctor is rubbish with emotions this go round, so he only reaches out a hand to ruffle the boy’s hair and says, “Did I ever tell you about the time your grandmother met a whale in space?”

 

When the lad is finally, genuinely asleep without any psychic help from him at all, the Doctor stalks back down the stairs and finds River in the living room. It looks more like a normal living room now and less like a five year old’s playroom. River sits curled up on the sofa, looking shockingly domestic. Eyes on the papers she’s grading, she sips from the glass of red wine in her hand and says, “Are you going to stand there all night? I know you have questions. Your giant Time Lord head is probably about to explode.”

 

He scowls, prowling around behind her and inspecting the bookshelves lining the walls. Every single one is stuffed with archaeology texts, classic literature, and the occasional children’s book – _Where’s Waldo_ and _Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day_ intermingled with Dostoyevsky and poetry from alien worlds.

 

“The coffee, the missing picture frames… I don’t leave you to raise him on your own.” He says it like he already knows but he only has hope to sustain him, holding his breath and praying he hasn’t already managed to bugger this up before he’s begun, waiting for the inevitable _spoilers_ to fall from her lips.

 

River surprises him. “Of course not. You’re here every day.” She sips her wine again, marking a student’s paper with B in red ink. “Except Wednesdays, of course. You can’t neglect your companion.”

 

He blinks at her, abandoning the bookshelves to take a step forward. “I live here? Here in this wee little house with you and the whelp? I’m taking the slow path?”

 

He can’t tell if what he’s feeling is amazement or horror.

 

River snorts. “Well, God knows what you get up to while I’m sleeping.” She scribbles in the margin of another paper, tsking quietly to herself. “But for the most part, yes.”

 

“And you’re fine with that, are you? Being Professor Song and Mummy? No more jumping off buildings for fun, no more stealing because something shiny catches your eye?”

 

“Hardly.” She scoffs, lifting her head and raising a perfectly shaped brow at him. “You get Wednesdays and I get Fridays. I can’t let you have all the fun.”

 

He licks his lips, spinning around to pace away from her, feeling his whole world tilt on its axis. Wednesdays. Wednesdays and nights when River sleeps are for running. The rest of the time he’s what? Dad? Mr. Mum? Oh Christ his hearts aren’t strong enough for this anymore.

 

“It’s not Wednesday.”

 

“What?”

 

He snaps his fingers impatiently. “It’s not Wednesday, so where am I?” She stares at him blankly but he has the feeling she’s being deliberately difficult right now. Spreading his arms out, he snaps, “Future me! Domestic me! Daddy!”

 

River smirks.

 

He frowns savagely at her. “Missed my own tyke’s birthday.”

 

“You didn’t miss it,” she explains patiently, like she’s talking to her son instead of a grown man. “You’re right here.”

 

He narrows his eyes at her. “Semantics.”

 

She sighs. “You left last night – took half our family photographs with you and said you’d be back soon. You must have remembered this little visit.”

 

Turning from her, the Doctor returns to pacing, grumbling under his breath.

 

River watches him fondly. “That’s all you’re getting from me, Doctor. I’ve said too much already.”

 

“Yes, you have.” He eyes her suspiciously. “Why?”

 

Putting aside her glass of wine and papers, River approaches him slowly, a hunter closing in on dangerous prey. “I don’t know. Motherhood is making me soft?”

 

He allows her to straighten the lapels of his coat, her hands small and warm on his chest. He’ll never admit out loud just how much he has missed her touch, or just how weak his knees feel to have her hands on him again. “Not likely.”

 

She traces a fingertip over his jaw, just light enough to make him visibly shudder no matter how still and disapproving he tries to appear. Her eyes light up with triumph. “Maybe I just wanted to be sure that when I show up on the TARDIS with positive pregnancy results, you aren’t going to run away screaming.”

 

He tilts his head in acknowledgment, mouth quirking. “More likely.”

 

River kisses his chin and his eyes fall shut. “Take me to bed.”

 

She leads the way since he doesn’t know it yet, tugging him up the stairs and past their son’s room. The door barely shuts behind them before River turns, molding her body to his and sealing their lips together in a kiss that makes every single one of his newly constructed Grumpy Scotsman defenses crumble at his feet.

 

When she pulls away to undress, he pays no mind to their surroundings, sure that his future self would have removed any spoilers from here too. Besides, once River lifts her dress over her head and shimmies out of her knickers, he’s much too busy staring at his naked wife for the first time in centuries to care about inane things like _décor_.

 

She smiles when he stands there motionless and staring, wrestling with the urge to do something ridiculous and embarrassing like cry. Eyes soft and understanding, River holds out a hand and murmurs, “Come kiss me, honey.”

 

He steps into her arms and he’s home.

 

Morning brings unfamiliar domestic sounds – River making breakfast downstairs, their son chattering away to her all the while. It leaves the Doctor no time to pretend it had all been a dream. He has a family again, whether he’s ready or not. He feels too old to have a child, but the responsibility must fall to him, since Baby Face would likely undergo severe mental collapse under the pressure. River was right. He wasn’t ready then. He isn’t ready now. But this face isn’t the running kind.

 

The Doctor allows himself a moment to gather his thoughts, resting a hand on River’s pillow next to him and listening to her patient replies to their son’s incessant questions. He wonders how terrified she’d been when she found out. He can’t imagine River was any more prepared to be a mother than he is to be a father again. But she’d managed. More than that, she flourished. She made a life for herself and her son, and she even dragged the Doctor into it, all the while making sure neither of them lost their freedom in the process of having a family. She’s a sodding wonder, his wife.

 

The Doctor swings his legs over the side of the bed and begins to dress. He finds his shirt and trousers halfway across the room and his jacket hanging over a lampshade on the dresser. Slipping into it, he crosses back to the bed and bends to pick up his shoes. A piece of paper catches his eye, wedged between the wall and the bed. He pulls it out curiously, standing as he turns it over to examine it.

 

His breath hitches in his throat.

 

A picture.

 

Future him must have missed it in his mad dash to gather spoilers and cart them off. He stares at the photograph of himself sprawled across the sofa downstairs, his infant son dozing on his chest. Sunlight streams into the room and the Doctor frowns at the picture, uneasy with the idea of a newborn wearing him out to the point of unintended naps in the afternoon. He flips the picture over, moving his thumb to read in River’s handwriting:

 

_My boys xoxo_

 

Turning the picture over again, the Doctor studies the way he holds his son protectively to his chest, one hand splayed over his tiny back. The lad sleeps peacefully, head tucked under the Doctor’s chin, trusting and oblivious. He imagines River just off camera, smiling at them and seconds from joining them in a tangle of limbs and sweet, even breathing on the sofa. It’s almost disgustingly domestic but…

 

Maybe he could get used to afternoon naps.

 

The Doctor tucks the picture into his pocket and returns his attention to his shoes. By the time he makes it downstairs, breakfast is ready and his wife and son are in the middle of making Sontaran faces on their waffles with fruit slices. They both look up when he steps into the doorway and while before he saw nothing but his last regeneration in the boy, the Doctor is suddenly struck by the notion that it is River peeking out at him from under that mop of hair.

 

Watching him closely, River takes the blueberry eye from her Sontaran waffle and pops it into her mouth. “Good morning, sweetie.”

 

He nods, strolling up to the table and nicking the other blueberry eye. While he’s near, River steals a kiss, soft lips brushing the corner of his mouth. He inhales and forgets to breathe out again.

 

The lad wrinkles his nose.

 

River tosses the waffle Sontaran’s strawberry nose at him, grinning when he ducks with a giggle. “Don’t start, young man. Hurry up and finish your breakfast. If you miss the shuttle I’m taking you to classes with me.”

 

The Doctor couldn’t be prouder of the horrified look on his son’s face. “It’s so _boring_. And all the boys look at you like Daddy does.” He bats his eyelashes dramatically while River rolls her eyes.

 

The Doctor frowns. “I do not look at her like that.” He whirls to his wife. “Who else is looking at you like that? You’re their professor! Don’t they have any common decency?”

 

“It’s nothing, sweetie.” River glares over his shoulder at their son, who grins and shoves a forkful of waffle into his mouth.

 

“Do they know you’re _married_?”

 

“The five year old tagging along behind me is usually a dead giveaway,” she says dryly, and kisses him again until he stops scowling. She pulls away licking her lips, her eyes regretful. “You have to leave now.”

 

His stomach drops but he nods. “I know.”

 

“Mum,” the boy whinges. “Can’t he stay for breakfast?”

 

River shakes her head firmly. “Not today, darling. We’ve spoiled him enough.”

 

The boy pouts, poking at his breakfast. The Doctor feels like joining him. Just yesterday, all he wanted to do was turn and run. Now, he only wants to sit still – to have breakfast with his family and possibly make sure the wee one misses the shuttle so the two of them can go to River’s classes together and shoot spitballs at anyone who flirts with her.

 

Sensing his reluctance, River strokes a hand over his cheek. “Not running now, old man?”

 

He glares but shakes his head.

 

She smiles. “Good. Job done.” She pats his cheek and steps back, laying a hand on the boy’s shoulder, both of them looking at him with the same eyes. The boy leans his head into River’s side and she winks at the Doctor. “Go on then. Come back when you know his name.”

 

He thought it was all over. His Ponds gone, his wife dead, and with no desire to ever let anyone in like that again – no more playing happy families for the traveling old man. Forcing himself to whirl away from his future and start back for the TARDIS, he calls over his shoulder, “Behave for your mother, lad. And dear? Don’t wait up.”

 

-

 

It’s years before he stumbles out of the TARDIS and into a familiar back garden, eyes scanning eagerly for floppy brown hair. He took great pains to land on a Wednesday, when his older self is sure to be swanning about with his companion.

 

“Daddy!” A rustling from the garden’s only tree draws his attention from scanning the yard and up – to the little boy currently scrambling from his perch with alien agility but absolutely no grace whatsoever.

 

The Doctor can’t help but stare. River and their newborn are resting on the TARDIS but here the boy is now, five years old and perfect. He still isn’t sure about this fatherhood business so it’s nice to have some spoilery assurance that he doesn’t completely bugger up.

 

“Catch!”

 

Before the Doctor can utter a word to stop him, the boy throws himself from the tree with a delighted giggle, trusting his father to be there when he lands. Hearts in his throat, the Doctor staggers forward and holds out his arms, with just enough time to grumble _exactly like your mother_ before the warm, heavy weight of his son lands safely in his embrace.

 

Clutching the boy to him just as River steps outside smiling, the Doctor buries his face in sweetly mussed, soft and boyish hair, his chest suddenly tight and full. “Roman,” he breathes, meeting River’s eyes over the lad’s head and huffing out a soft laugh. “Your name is Roman.”


End file.
